


how do you want me

by feathers_and_cigarettes, sevdrag (seventhe)



Series: murder spouses write murder husbands [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anal Sex, Authors Know Too Much About Murder, Basically the same bullshit as always except with more murder, Bloodplay, Crazy Bucky Barnes, Discussion Of Murder, Enemies to Lovers, Enthusiastic Consent, Fighting As Foreplay, Hand Jobs, It's Not Pizza Sauce, Knifeplay, M/M, Mild Blood, Murder Husbands, Nicely Insulated Apartment Walls In Bed-Stuy, Rough Sex, The Cold Man, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Vigilante Killer Clint Barton, Yes there is lube, don't worry they are very very into it, enemies to fuckbuddies, enemies to fucking at least, especially for us, for us, it's actually not even that gratuitous, it's sex, murder husbands meet cute, no (1) coffee tables were harmed in the making of this fic, why are we like this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23269051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feathers_and_cigarettes/pseuds/feathers_and_cigarettes, https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhe/pseuds/sevdrag
Summary: He was expecting wide eyes, a whimper, an attempt to push him away. Bucky was not expecting Clint’s pupils to dilate until his eyes were nearly black with arousal, or for his mouth to open, panting, before a completely wicked grin took over.“Fuck, I got lucky with you,” the other man murmured.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: murder spouses write murder husbands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1673203
Comments: 18
Kudos: 205





	how do you want me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).



> WELL OKAY SO: murder wife and murder husband fail at flash commissions when asked to write said commissions TOGETHER, lesson learnt; but then again we offer many more words in reparations.
> 
> We have been tossing this Murder Husbands universe around for a WHILE and were thrilled when it looked like we would have a chance to finish it up and post it for Bobbi, who asked for enemies to lovers and didn't mind us getting a little, uh, messy with it. ;)

“Please tell me that’s pizza sauce.”

Clint blinked, craning his neck to look at the collar of his shirt. He’d changed clothes after he’d dumped whatshisname’s body – what was left of it, anyway – but bone saws had an unfortunate tendency to get messy. Really, he was fucking lucky he’d even had a spare set with him along with his tools.

“Uh. Maybe? I got distracted.”

Kate looked like she was about to strangle him with Lucky’s leash for the shirt alone. “Fucking Christ, Clint,” she growled, rising from the bar stool to grab Clint’s shirt, twisting the grey button down and peering at the reddish smear. “I got you this for your birthday, asshole.”

“And I was gonna wear it next time you needed me to look presentable, but it was the only thing I had in the car.”

“It’s _dry clean_ only, you fuck.”

Clint held up his hands, taking a step back from Kate’s fury. “The t-shirt wasn’t salvageable, I had to burn it. I swear I just went out for pizza, Katie-Kate, really.”

Scowling, Kate held out her hand and Clint awkwardly shuffled out of his shirt. He handed it over, feeling an awful lot like Lucky must when he got caught rooting through the waste bin.

“It’s been two days, Clint. Two. You can’t tell me in two days you managed to set up a kill room and catch someone else on your list in fucking Bed-Stuy,” Kate said, voice full of scorn that would have probably set Clint off were he not still riding the high of his latest kill.

Lucky trotted over to sit at Clint’s feet, tail thumping as he looked up at him in sheer adoration and leaned against his legs.

“I didn’t,” Clint ground out, rubbing Lucky’s soft ears and pushing down his irritation. Kate didn’t get it, would never get it, but she meant well. She was the little sister he never had and as annoyed as he got with her, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

Well. Almost nothing.

“Guy didn’t like my shirt. He was yelling at his girlfriend on the phone and I told him to keep it down and have some respect,” he continued, smiling at the memory of the man’s fists curling into the fabric of his t-shirt. “He pushed me around a little, guy at the counter told us to take it outside.”

Kate shot him an exasperated look. “Please tell me you just broke his nose and beat him up a bit.” She knew better, knew Clint Barton all too well, but she still hoped for the best every time he arrived back at the apartment covered in someone else’s blood.

Clint felt bad that he didn’t feel bad about it.

“Nah, shoved a pen in his carotid,” he replied, a happy grin stretching across his face, despite his guilt at seeing Kate’s face fall. “Which, by the way, harder than it sounds, but it was the only thing I could grab out of my pocket.”

Well, there was the receipt from the pizza too, but even Clint would need some time to kill someone with paper cuts.

“Jesus, Clint,” Kate swore, swallowing heavily and breaking eye contact. She rubbed a hand across her face, grimacing at the shirt in her hand.

“No one saw, it’s okay. I still had a spare tarp from Monday and put that down in the trunk so I don’t even need to get the car cleaned out too much. He’s scattered in that landfill—”

“Please don’t finish that sentence,” Kate snapped, the edge in her voice making the smile on Clint’s face waver slightly. “Just, don’t. Go shower. I’m taking Lucky out and I’ll take care of the shirt.”

She shoved past Clint, her knuckles around Lucky’s leash white as she took care to move past him without touching him.

The door slammed shut and Clint was left staring into the space Kate had occupied, his smile fading as guilt at her reaction gnawed at him. Fuck. He always fucking did that. Always forgot that aside from Nat, people weren’t supposed to _enjoy_ killing other people.

He stood shirtless in his kitchen, fingers twitching from leftover adrenaline and the urge to punch the wall until something in his hand broke for hurting Kate _again_.

Kate was good, and while Clint would never be capable of being close to something resembling human, he owed it to her to try.

Unclenching his fists, he sucked in a breath and kicked his sneakers off, automatically checking the floor for any bloody prints. He’d hosed off his sneakers back at the landfill but his cleanup was never perfect on his spontaneous kills. When he saw red, he tended to just react and the rest became autopilot – hence the blood still caked under his bitten-short fingernails and likely still streaking his mohawk.

He padded his way up the stairs to his loft, toeing off his socks and letting his sweatpants fall to the floor. Forget the blood; anyone who’d seen Clint walk into the building with sweatpants and a likely stupidly expensive button down shirt would have probably assumed the worst.

Stepping out of his boxers, he scratched his upper thigh and reached behind the shower curtain to turn the water on. He studied himself in the mirror, taking in the bruise blossoming on his cheekbone and, yep, that was blood spattered into the longer hair.

At least he hadn’t broken his nose again; he was getting fucking sick of tape and the neighbours probably thought he was a battered wife.

He rubbed his hand along his chin, debating whether or not to bother shaving. Kate usually strongly encouraged it, as did Nat, both telling him he wasn’t one of those guys who could get away with a five o’clock shadow – at best he looked homeless, at worst he looked like, well, a serial killer.

The latter was true, but that didn’t make it any easier when he wanted to try to get laid.

Sighing, Clint made quick work of his stubble, swearing and dancing from foot to foot as he sliced open the cleft of his chin. He dabbed at the blood welling from the cut with some toilet paper and wiped the steam from the mirror with his forearm.

Nat was right: he was a hot fucking mess and it was a wonder he hadn’t been arrested or killed at this point.

He gave up on the cut, leaving the bloody toilet paper in the sink and stepping into the shower, sighing in relief as the hot spray pounded between his shoulderblades. 

Despite the soothing shower, he was still _antsy._ Sure, the kill had been great, an unexpected perk to his day, but he was craving something else entirely. How long had it been since he’d gotten laid? Two months? Three? That was the fuckin’ problem with his extracurricular activities: he craved that darkness in his partners and most people tended to freak the fuck out if they spotted a bone saw and a tarp or the questionable amount of trash bags in Clint’s car. 

Sometimes he just wished someone else understood.

He’d settle for a fuckin’ blowjob though, he decided as he worked the shampoo through his hair. Maybe the luck of his day would continue for the rest of the night. 

There was a bar not too far from his apartment where he’d picked up people before; it was small, cozy, and, most importantly, people tended to not ask too many questions. Clint was pretty well liked by the staff, none of them setting off Clint’s bloodthirsty cravings, and the beer was semi-decent for the price. The last time he’d gone, he’d even managed to pick up someone willing to push him around a little bit in the bedroom - a rare treat. 

Mind made up, Clint smiled to himself, his spirits lifting a little bit at the prospect of sex. Worst case scenario, he got one of their loaded burgers and a couple beers and conned a couple of idiots out of their money at darts, which wasn’t a half bad night either, all things considering. 

———

The bar was as empty as he’d expected, which was good. He didn’t want any trouble, he didn’t want any hassle, he just wanted to get a goddamn beer like a normal person without having his dogshit crazy brain throw any kind of fit.

Bucky’s eyes flicked through the room as he slowly made his way to the bar. Table to the right, four targets. Two male, one female, one unclear. Two male targets at the end of the bar. Exits to kitchen, bathroom, third door unknown. To the left, two female targets at pool table.

_People,_ Bucky thought. Not targets. People. Jesus. 

The bartender was small, female, unassuming. _Not a threat._ Charming. Bucky ordered something on draft called _Robohop_ because he liked the name. He’d unconsciously drifted to the side of the bar, where he had a view of most of the room, and the only targets to his back were the two ladies at the pool table.

He lifted his beer, and took a drink. Robohop turned out to be pretty good: bitter, refreshing, with a long aftertaste. This was something he could do, Bucky thought. He could sit in public, alone, having a simple beer. Surrounded by people who were people, not targets, not dangers. Just normal people out to do the same thing he was, not knowing that the crazy motherfucker with the IPA could snap and take out at least half of them with no warning.

This was good. This was ...fun.

He stared at the TV behind the bar for a while - who the fuck actually likes watching golf? - while he listened to the background noise of the room, letting himself get used to it, eventually filtering out any noises that weren’t important. Then he watched the bartender for a while. She was small, with quick hands, and incredibly efficient: no flips or flourishes, just drinks being poured and the bar being prepared for the evening crowd. It wouldn’t be hard to jump the bar, back her up against the whiskey display, choke her. Slit her throat. Break her neck. Nice and easy; if he was fast enough, she wouldn’t even be able to vocalize anything. He could just drop her behind the bar and slip out through the back. If he waited until the room had topped-off drinks he’d probably have a good five minutes to vanish, too, definitely enough time for someone like him in a city like this, and they wouldn't--

\-- _Fuck._ Bucky came back to himself in a hot rush, on the end of a hard inhale.

Do it, the cold man said. Eliminate the target.

_Turn yourself the fuck in,_ Bucky thought back. _We’re one cashew short of a nuthouse, my friend. I just got these fucked-up pieces of brain working again. You will not fuck this up._

It was stupid to think he could be here, around humans. When he wasn’t, anymore. His brain was ringing. Eliminate the target. Eliminate the witnesses. Eliminate and hide.

_Fuck off,_ Bucky told the cold man. He was gonna sit here and finish the Robohop and then maybe order another. He was real, all reconnected in the brainpan, real and functional. This was all just the usual bullshit. The cold man wasn’t real.

Eliminate, said the cold man, or suffer the consequences.

_What consequences?_

Negative.

_Go fuck yourself,_ Bucky thought, his brain screaming with it. _Go, go fuck yourself, go away, I am not crazy, I am not._

He made himself focus. The beer was still cold, and he focused on the feel of it, the bitterness of the hops and the bright citrus and the roast of the malt, and he focused on the motion of swallowing in his throat, and he focused on being very real in a very real body in a public place with people. 

Eventually, Bucky opened his eyes again. The bartender was standing in front of him, a cute little smirk on her face, as if she knew, as if she knew _him,_ when she had no idea how easy it would be for him to slip behind the bar and choke her life from her like a game.

“Rough day?” she asked, her smirk softening into a smile, and she was pretty good at this, at playing this role.

Of course, Bucky was better. But he wasn’t in the mood for _that_ game today. 

“I’ll have another,” he said, trying to sound exhausted and withdrawn because he was. He couldn’t look at her because his brain was still calculating all the places he could hide a body and this wasn’t her fault. He just wanted her to leave him alone so he could try to get through the second beer without thinking about the knife in his boot and the strength in his left hand.

\------

The hair on the back of Clint’s neck stood up as soon as the man walked into the bar. Everything about him screamed high alert, something wild and sharp that instantly drew Clint’s attention. Military maybe? Clint’d fucked a special ops guy once that carried himself in a similar fashion - back a little too straight but fingers constantly twitching, eyes constantly darting, as if reaching for a trigger that wasn’t there and a target they couldn’t spot. 

All that shit was too much work for Clint. If someone wanted to come after him, he’d relish the fight, but he didn’t have too much to worry about with his - not to quote Liam Neeson, but really, he’d seen _Taken_ too many times - “unique set of skills.”

This guy though, there was just something… _off_ about him. He was fuckin’ _gorgeous_ for one thing - way too hot to be in this particular trash heap of a bar, with his long dark hair framing a handsome face. Definitely kissable lips, but his eyes kept flicking around, checking for exits, noting every person in the bar, watching Daisy the bartender with thinly veiled suspicion as she poured his beer. He was like a skittish dog, ready to snap at the smallest provocation. 

Maybe if Clint went over and said hello, he’d get lucky and the guy’d pull a knife on him. 

Clint draped an arm over the back of the chair, grinning broadly at Daisy as she topped off his cherry ale. He was acutely aware of the guy’s eyes on him, the intensity of his gaze sending shivers down his spine in all the right ways.

Cracking a couple of golf jokes at Daisy, he kept up his act of harmless idiot, drawing _just_ enough attention to himself that he’d know if the guy were interested, but not being too obnoxious that he’d register as a threat. The regulars ignored him aside from a few appraising looks; Clint couldn’t blame them, his looks were one of his few redeeming qualities, but he was really hoping Mystery Guy wouldn’t be of the same mindset. 

The pool table was taken, so he couldn’t show off his _ass_ ets in his preferred way, but the dart board was free. It was tucked neatly into a corner, the board worn and in dire need of replacement, and it just so happened to be right in Mystery Guy’s line of sight. 

He took a swig of his beer and sauntered over, setting the glass down on the aged bartop next to Mystery Guy’s. 

“Mind watching this for me?” he asked casually, watching as Mystery Guy’s entire spine stiffened, his fingers twitching and his left hand jerking before he got himself under control. 

Hair trigger. This was gonna be fun. 

This close, Mystery Guy’s eyes were a really pretty shade of blue, made even prettier by the almost feral look in them, somewhere in between fear and controlled aggression. He gaped for a second, like he wasn’t sure how to answer a question, quick emotions flickering over his face before settling on neutrality. Nodding, he set his jaw and turned almost robotically back to the television, turning his shoulder in what Clint would have taken as a rejection if he hadn’t seen that quick flash of fire light up his eyes. 

“Cool, thanks,” Clint said, as if he weren’t picturing slamming the guy up against the bar and sticking his tongue down his throat and putting bruises on his hips.

He threw his darts on autopilot, not really trying to show off but instead just hitting the bullseye in clean, efficient throws. Normally he’d be doing handstands, throwing blindfolded, spinning in circles - all his circus tricks - but he had the nagging feeling Mystery Guy wouldn’t be impressed by that, maybe even put off. 

The darker part of Clint’s brain toyed idly with another kill. Three in one week would be bordering excessive - God knew Kate wouldn’t approve, but what she didn’t know didn’t hurt her - and his chances of getting caught would certainly go up with two in one day but… He was curious.

Would Mystery Guy put up a good fight? Would that fire come back into his eyes if he were struggling to survive?

No. Bad Clint. He was here to get his rocks off, not off someone, no matter how crossed the wires in his brain were. 

He could feel Mystery Guy’s eyes on him and he cooly sank two of the darts at once before deciding on a move. Stretching and making sure to show off his biceps, he stepped back to the bar and reached for his beer, moving a little closer than strictly necessary to Mystery Guy in the process. 

“You up for a round?”

Mystery Guy looked like a deer caught in headlights. Like Clint’s last question, it seemed to take the guy a second to process he was being spoken to - maybe he was hard of hearing too? He didn’t seem to be watching Clint’s lips, the opposite rather; he was looking at Clint’s throat, his chest, his wrists, and then quickly shifting away. 

“No pressure, just figured I’d ask,” Clint said, holding up his hands like he was soothing a wild animal. “If you don’t know how, I can teach you if you want.”

“I know how to throw a dart,” Mystery Guy replied stiffly, almost offended. The gloved fingers of his left hand still twitched, no noticeable pattern that Clint could pick up. He downed the last of his beer and stood, walking over to the board to retrieve the darts. 

Clint leaned against the bar, nursing his beer and enjoying the view. The guy was obviously in shape, that much apparent even with the baggy hoodie and old jeans. He definitely moved like a soldier, but everything about him set off alarm bells in Clint’s brain. 

As he took aim and threw his shots, those alarm bells got louder and arousal pooled low in Clint’s belly. The guy wasn’t as good as Clint - obviously - but he was clearly a skilled marksman, his darts clustering close together in the bullseye. 

Almost unsure of what to do next, Mystery Guy turned to Clint, an almost challenging look in his eye. 

Smirking, Clint applauded, widening his stance against the bar to an almost lewd level and watching Mystery Guy’s eyes dilate. “I’m Clint,” he drawled, holding out his hand. “You got a name?”

The hand that gripped his was insanely strong, the bones and tendons in Clint’s hand aching in protest. Once again, Mystery Guy thought about the question, his expression wavering between confusion and fear - what the hell was with this guy? He opened his mouth and shut it a few times, his head tilting to the side before he gave it a little shake. 

“James,” he said, too quickly. Not his real name then, but Clint didn’t really care at this point. He could be James or Bob or Stan or even fuckin’ Judy for all Clint cared.

Clint pushed himself off the bar, keeping James’ hand firmly in his own and tugging him close. “You’re a good shot, James,” he purred, rubbing his thumb over the back of the glove. 

James grunted in reply, his eyes darting from Clint’s lips to his throat and back again. Man of a few words, apparently. That was fine; Clint wasn’t planning on letting him talk much anyway.

“You wanna maybe come back to my place? Show me how good of a shot you can be?” 

A low, almost strangled noise escaped from James’ throat and that was good enough for Clint.

\------

Up the stairs — Bucky was keeping an eye on his surroundings as he bit at Clint’s mouth and neck; it looked like Clint was at the top of a staircase, no next-door neighbors but potentially one below. Fine. He’d have to keep the shouting and fighting to a minimum — although from the way Clint was mouthing at his neck like an animal, maybe rough sex wouldn’t be an abnormal chorus after all. 

Rough sex. He just had to make it sound like rough sex.

Clint hauled the door open, hauled him inside, and Bucky spun to slam Clint up against the door, pressing into him _hard,_ grabbing his wrists and pinning them while he devoured Clint’s mouth; most people would have pushed him away, _too hard, too much_ , but Clint was whimpering like he wanted it. Right. Bucky released his wrists only to have Clint tangle both hands into his hair and tug, _hard,_ his lips on Bucky’s collarbone hot enough to go right to his dick. Bucky grabbed at Clint’s hips, slamming his ass back against the door, then dropped to his knees.

“Jesus fuck,” Clint breathed above him, “you are no joke, you motherfucker—”

Bucky pressed Clint’s hips back when he went to move them, and used his left hand to fumble distractingly at Clint’s fly while his right hand slipped into his boot. Looking upwards, he saw Clint’s head tipped back against the door, so he flipped the grip of the knife in his hand, rolling it in his fingers pleasantly, before surging back up and pressing the knife to Clint’s throat.

He was expecting wide eyes, a whimper, an attempt to push him away. Bucky was _not_ expecting Clint’s pupils to dilate until his eyes were nearly black with arousal, or for his mouth to open, panting, before a completely wicked grin took over.

“Fuck, I got lucky with you,” the other man murmured.

“I’m going to kill you,” Bucky told him, calm now that there was a thin bloody line across Clint’s skin, a single drop running down the hollow of his throat. Calm now, with his knife so close to what he needed, so fucking close; all he needed to do was press.

“God, yes,” Clint moaned, closing his eyes. “Just fuck me first, okay?”

This was not the reaction Bucky had expected. 

“I’m serious,” he said, pressing the knife deeper, aware that his words sounded inane, but he had to see into Clint’s eyes before, or it just wouldn’t be worth it. “I’m going to kill you, right here.” It came out lower and breathier than he’d intended and Bucky realized, somewhat distantly, that he’d never been fucking harder in his entire life.

“Shit, yeah,” Clint gasped, and reached out for him.

The unexpected motion had Bucky stumbling, but he threw himself somewhat backwards and then Clint was on him. It only took Bucky a few minutes to realize Clint was fighting: fighting him for the knife, he figured, except Clint seemed to be alternating blows with his palm to fingers grabbing at the button of Bucky’s jeans. Bucky fought back, landing a good blow against Clint’s cheek that just caused the man to turn his head, spit, and then launch himself into Bucky. His weight took Bucky right over, down onto something with a hard angle that dug right into his lower back and made him choke even as it shattered, leaving him to painfully fall to the ground underneath. 

Clint’s hands were on him, immediately, around his neck. “This is what you like?” He hissed, and Clint looked nothing like the man in the bar now; his face was flushed, his eyes so fucking dark Bucky couldn’t even see the color, and his teeth were set behind this maniacal grin. “You like these games?”

Bucky jerked, but he’d managed to drop the knife when he fell through the - coffee table, it looked like - so he ended up swinging a fist into the side of Clint’s face. Clint ducked, mostly, and tightened his hands around Bucky’s neck — and then leant down to kiss him, fiercely, more teeth than anything, and Bucky found his hands coming up to tug Clint’s hips down to his with a nearly painful jerk. He could barely breathe, breath choking though, and _still_ he was growling with the last of his air as Clint’s hips ground down into his, painful and hot as _hell._

He brought his left hand up - the metal one, the strong one - and gripped at Clint’s wrist hard enough to leave a bruise. The force and the tug must have surprised him, because Clint lost his grip, and Bucky immediately slammed them over, Clint on his back, his eyes flicking around for his lost knife.

Except that Clint’s mouth was swollen, and the trickle of blood from the initial wound was smeared across his neck, and Bucky decided instead to grip at Clint’s hair with both hands and plunder his mouth with his tongue. Clint seemed surprisingly enthusiastic at this for a man who was about to die, bringing his hands to fumble again at Bucky’s jeans, and when Clint pressed a flat palm against Bucky’s cock he couldn’t help but grunt and thrust into it, finally finding the sensation he needed.

“You _do_ like these games,” Clint whispered, hot and filthy, into Bucky’s ear. Bucky tugged at his hair again and the other man moaned out loud as Bucky took his lips down to lick at the blood smeared over that tender skin, to flick his tongue against the line his knife had drawn. “Fuck, you like this as much as I do.”

“It’s not a game,” Bucky growled, coming back to himself; he pulled away to look at Clint and brought his own hand between them to outline Clint’s cock. _Fuck,_ he was big, and so hard it must have hurt, and Bucky ran his thumb and fingers up and down the thick outline a few times just out of sheer physical enjoyment. Clint immediately slammed his eyes shut and bucked against Bucky’s hand, and Bucky watched, enthralled — until he remembered himself, and glanced around for his knife.

It had skidded across the carpet, and he’d have to roll them again, which would give Clint the top hand — at least, until Bucky got the knife. For a split second Bucky kept his hand working and drank in Clint’s surrender, his loud open moaning, and he wondered whether it would actually make sense to fuck him before he killed. The urge in him hadn’t died down, though; it was merely hiding behind the physical sensations of Clint’s body, and the second Bucky paused, it came roaring back to life in his ears. He had to, he had to, he had to — and Bucky glanced back down to realize he was riding Clint’s thigh, thrusting wantonly against it while his hand just pressed down on Clint’s cock so hard it must be hurting: except that Clint seemed even more gone as usual, grinding up against it, his mouth looking utterly debauched and a flush tracing down beneath the collar of his shirt.

Bucky wanted to cut Clint again, before he killed him.

So he rolled them over, tugging Clint down immediately to kiss him with one hand while letting the other flail outwards, grasping for his knife. After a few brief and breathless moments, he found it - unfortunately, with the palm of his real hand, grasping it such that the blade bit into the thick area just beneath his thumb. Bucky hissed into Clint’s mouth, the pain echoing _so good_ across his skin, and Clint swallowed the noise before taking Bucky’s lip in his teeth and worrying at it, softly and devotedly, until Bucky could taste the iron tang of blood along with the heat of Clint’s mouth. 

He flipped them again - only halfway as their legs tangled into something Clint kicked with a truly offended grunt; Bucky heard something shatter in the background - and as whatever it was gave way he settled himself back on top of Clint, his strong left hand holding Clint’s to the floor, the other holding the knife to his neck, again.

They were both still for a moment, both panting, and Bucky could feel Clint’s hard cock through his jeans and had to bite his already-bleeding lip to keep himself from giving in to it, starting to move against it again.

“I’m going to cut you,” he said, calmly — except that it came out as a growl, all low and filthy, and Clint fucking swallowed and _shut his eyes again,_ tipping his head back, revealing the entire soft column of his neck.

Bucky couldn’t believe his luck. All it would take was that single press; it was a lot of force, but with the neck open and willing like this, it would be a single plunge through that skin and into the veins and arteries below, slashing through the windpipe, and—

“Please,” Clint gasped.

Bucky stopped. He couldn’t help it; it was one simple, single motion that could end this man’s life, and rather than fighting, the motherfucker was _begging_ for it, like it would be the best orgasm in his life to come so hard he bled out.

_Fuck._

Bucky didn’t realize that he’d dropped the knife until long seconds later, because he was wrapped up in Clint, their tongues bruising as they grasped at each other’s clothing, both fighting for dominance, fingernails and teeth. They stumbled to their feet together in an uncoordinated motion - too much shit broken on the floor for either of them to get purchase - and then Bucky found himself thrown down a long hallway and up against the door to another room.

_Nope._ Bucky flipped them until Clint’s back was pressed to the door and then reached down to tear at - somewhat literally - the fastenings to his jeans, throwing them open and unzipping them to give him access. His brain was burning up, disintegrating under overwhelming heat, and all Bucky could think was that maybe, maybe if he could get Clint off, the other man would be momentarily impaired, distracted — and then Bucky could off him in the afterglow, reading all the satisfaction on his face before taking that long dark slash through his throat and watching his breath die.

Bucky slid his hand down Clint’s abs, beneath the fabrics, slowly sliding his palm down until he was gripping Clint’s cock, and Clint made this absolutely gorgeous noise in the back of his throat as his hips twitched upwards. His cock was beautifully thick, and Bucky let his grip pulse around it a few times, intrigued at the noises Clint was making, incredibly enthralled at the way Clint’s hips seemed to move subconsciously: as if all Bucky had to do was keep his hand in place and Clint would be there, fucking his increasingly slick cock into Bucky’s fist.

The thought was lovely enough to distract him for a few moments too long, during which Clint actually did thrust into his fist a few times and then made some kind of howling noise from the back of his throat as he came, pulsing hot over Bucky’s gloved hand.

Bucky gaped at him, incredulous, as Clint’s hips stuttered against his grip. The man’s eyes were blown wide open, staring at Bucky like they may or may not have seen him. Blood trickled a dark red path down his throat and his fists were pressed against the door, so hard his knuckles were white, and all of Bucky’s urges took a _hard_ turn until all he was focused on was the man in front of him.

“I’m going to make you cry,” he said roughly, spinning Clint and tossing him down into the middle of the bed: unmade, dark sheets, the overall feel telling Bucky that this was Clint’s bedroom.

“Before or after you kill me?” Clint murmured, his smile gone wide and soft, hopelessly lax against his pillows.

Some small, desperate part of Bucky’s brain was yelling at Bucky to go back and grab the knife - grab something - grab any one of the weapons tucked into the cargo pants he was currently dropping to the floor along with his boxers. His hands were tugging Clint’s pants off, and Bucky felt momentarily rewarded when Clint threw those layers into the corner before peeling off his top and dropping backwards onto his bed, the sharp lines of stark muscles distracting Bucky’s gaze for long stretches before Bucky realized his own pants were at his ankles. 

Bucky tore off his own top, stepped out of his pants, and snapped, “On your stomach, or I choke you.”

Clint easily flipped over and then stretched, his arms reaching outwards as his back arched. “Does it have to be an _or?_ ” Clint said, and Bucky nearly choked himself. “Can’t it be an _and?”_

Bucky stepped out of all of his trappings and climbed onto the bed, his hands coming up to trace the back of Clint’s thighs with his knuckles. His blood was still as high as a kite, but the cold man wasn’t anywhere close. “Do you have lube,” Bucky grumbled into the other man’s ear, “or am I taking you like this.”

_“Fuck.”_ Bucky could feel the concept as it shivered through Clint’s body and he decided to remember that for — for what? A future encounter? As if he was going to let this man live after how deeply he’d been able to see into Bucky. Finally Clint lurched forward, tugged at a drawer, feebly threw something back towards Bucky. “Here,” said Clint, “but I don’t need prep. You want it raw, you can have it raw.”

Who the _fuck_ did he pick up at this bar, anyway? Bucky shoved Clint’s face down into the pillows and stripped off first the long glove, then the shorter one, with his teeth.

Bucky picked up the small bottle and tipped it over into his right palm and then spent a few seconds slicking up his cock as if — oh, hell, _fuck,_ the slick liquid was self-heating, warming itself around Bucky’s dick until it was pulsing, hot, like a heated drink palmed in the winter. 

“This is what you want?” Bucky breathed, almost laughing, because it was nearly too hot to be comfortable. “I’m going to put my fingers in you and laugh.”

“Nope,” said Clint, arching his back somehow until he was rubbing up against the base of Bucky’s dick and everything in his vision was fading away to grey. “Don’t need fingers, just need to feel this.”

And Bucky wrapped his right hand around Clint’s throat, using the grip to arch Clint’s back upwards as Clint somewhat choked against it, using his other hand to oh - so - slowly press his own slick, frantic cock inside of Clint, as slowly as he thought was appropriate considering he might still choke the man.

“Holy fucking Jesus shit,” Clint got out around the tightness of Bucky’s hand on his throat, and his hips angled open to the point where Bucky couldn’t help the thrust of his own hips, down into that slick darkness, taking advantage.

“Who the fuck are you,” Bucky asked, balls-deep into this absolute problem of a situation, unable to stop the thrust of his hips deeper and deeper into Clint.

The man below him grinned upwards, turning his head, but his smile had too many teeth and Bucky was still fucking into him, harder each time, over and over. “Fuck,” Clint managed to get out, over the palm of Bucky’s hand at his throat. “Fuck, fuck, _oh.”_

Bucky drove his own hips forward and forward again, his metal hand reaching around to press slickness against Clint’s cock — even if Clint was far from coming again, the noises he made were delicious, a whiny growl as he shuddered. Clint seemed like he was so gone he hadn’t even _noticed_ the metal arm. Christ.

“James,” Clint breathed, and suddenly the entire thing was too much: Bucky’s palm tightened around Clint’s throat just as his hips ended up slamming into Clint’s - once, twice - and then Bucky was absolutely coming, his teeth ending up buried in Clint’s neck as he thrust deeply, blinding himself with the force of it, his hand loosening enough that he could suck a sharp lovemark into Clint’s throat. 

He’d collapsed on top of Clint and the other man hadn’t even winced; somehow, weighted down by nearly two hundred pounds of a killer, Clint had absolutely relaxed, his limbs loose beneath Bucky. “Shit,” Clint said, the words hoarse and yet somehow still dreamy. “You might have actually killed me, James.”

“I wasn’t joking,” Bucky said. He’d left marks in Clint’s neck, sharp purple-red bruises that might end up bleeding. “You have no idea who I am.”

“Don’t care who you are if you fuck like that,” Clint said, somewhat muffled. Bucky shifted, and beneath him Clint tensed for the first time. “No. Don’t move yet. Wanna feel you go soft in me.”

Bucky’s exhausted cock jerked at that thought, and Clint laughed, low and mean. “Like that, huh? I _really_ lucked out with you.”

“I could hold you down and slit your throat,” Bucky told him.

“Enough foreplay, damn, my dick’s deceased,” Clint tossed back with a chuckle, adding at the end: “And yeah, you could, but you won’t, will you?”

“I _should,_ ” Bucky growled, but instead he let himself sag, sinking his full weight across Clint’s prone form. 

“If you’re gonna kill me, James, at least fuck me one more time before you do, alright?”

It was fearless: the voice of a man who knew to some extent that Bucky was serious and literally didn’t care. It was casual, a joke but at no one’s expense, just the acknowledgement that somehow the two of them were, maybe, more alike than Bucky had even thought. It was the voice of a man saying, yeah, I know you’re serious, and so am I.

And the cold man was still quiet. Bucky hadn’t ever been able to keep the cold man quiet for this long.

“At _least_ one more time,” he said finally. “And you can call me Bucky.”


End file.
